A Christmas Gift for the General
by Pre-Animation Man
Summary: aka, Homer's Gift


Homer, at the window, thought that the day was not at all like Christmas. The street he looked into was silent, almost desolate; the few people passing walked quickly with bent heads, as if they were cold, or sad—or both. Their feet left moist black imprints in the banked snow.

Christmas? Homer sighed, yearning in his heart for other, better years, when peace was abroad in the land and a holiday could be celebrated in proper fashion; when Hessian troops remained across the ocean where they belonged; when the httle town of Trenton was not hushed, terrified, but a pleasant place in which to hve, to make merry with friends and to share presents and gay greetings. Today Homer hadn't offered or received a single Christmas present—not onel and this, to him, seemed tragedy indeed.

He sighed, and Grandfather, hearing the mournful sound, rose from his fireside chair and hobbled over to lay a comforting hand on his shoulder,

"What are you, lad?"

Ah, but Grandfather knew. Grandfather might be old and so crippled now by rheumatism that he must stay always indoors, crouching over the logs to warm his ancient, aching joints; yet his spirit was youthful, strong. In Grandfather's breast burned the pure flame of patriotism. He gripped Homer's arm and sighed, too.

"Is it true," Homer asked, turning, "as they are saying: that General Washington must lose the war?"

The old man pursed withered lips. "Lately all reports have been discouraging. The soldiers suffer from dreadful cold, from lack of food and supphes. A dark hour for our country, very dark. But," Grandfather ended bravely, "there's still hope. Maybe in the spring our luck will change."

"You don't mean the Hessians will be quartered here until spring!" Homer wailed. "Oh, but we couldn't bear it. Those harsh, impudent—"

Grandfather lifted a warning finger. Homer must not denounce the Hessians, he said. No, they were here, occupying Trenton, taking the best of everything and hving handsomely, while townsfolk skimped, pinched and went hungry. They couldn't be ousted; therefore they must be tolerated—the Hessians, King George's hireling troops.

"Don't grumble," Grandfather advised.

But as he hobbled painfully back to his chair, he muttered under his breath that he would give his own life gladly, poor old thing that it was, if only with it he might aid the cause of freedom.

Presently Homer put on his cap and leather jacket. Carefully, so that Grandfather would not notice, he got a loaf of bread from the cupboard box, a scrap of dried meat from the shelf. He opened the door then and shpped out.

On the porch's narrow step was Bart, the black hound. At sight of his master, the big fellow reared up on hind legs, barked joyously and began the comical dance which Homer had taught him.

"No, Bart," Homer said gravely. "This isn't the time for tricks."

Bart had the most beautiful eyes in the world and a wide mouth stretched in an incessant, amiable grin. He had intelligence, too, beneath that satiny black skull of his. At the boy's command he dropped down obediently on four feet again, wagging his tail.

The dog beside him, Homer walked to the river and stood for a moment staring out over the ice-choked water. On the far shore, dim behind curtains of falling snow, were the rolling Pennsylvania hills. Nearer, on the Jersey side, were the piers and docks, deserted and idle.

Homer turned his back on the town. He sought a path at the water's edge. For almost a mile he trudged, winding with the river through thickets of rustling, bare-branched trees and snow-shrouded bushes, reaching at last a clearing where nestled a sturdy wooden shed with peaked roof and little windows.

Over the door was a sign. Homer read it sorrowfully: K. Simpson & Son, Carpenters. K. Simpson?—that was Grandfather, so ill and feeble. Son—that was Father, dear Father, far from home now, serving in the Continental Army. And there was no carpentry work done here these days.

Yet the shed did hold treasure even now, and Homer must come occasionally like this to visit it. The shed housed his boat, the roomy, iron-keeled craft which Grandfather and Father had built for him two years ago. The Madcap—that was her splendid name, lettered on her stern with yellow paint; and many a fine trip up and down the Delaware had Homer taken in her. But that, of course, was before the war. Now The Madcap

A Christmas Gift for the General was propped, high and dry, on blocks within the shed walls. He didn't know when she would be sailed again.

He unlocked the door and swung it on its rusty hinges. The interior of the shed was gloomy with shadows, chill and bleak. He lighted a candle; his breath formed a httle steamy cloud above the orange flame. He set the candle on a chest and bent over his boat. With a cloth he brushed dust from the seats and polished the metal strips on the rudder. But all this he did absently. Really, he was listening, waiting; and soon he heard what he listened for—a faint yet distinct scratching on the win-dowpane. A signal.

Homer strode to the door, pushed it cautiously ajar. A man entered. It was he, the ragged stranger, the wanderer Homer had met yesterday in the woods, who was so hollow-eyed, starved and mysterious. In the circle of candlelight, the man and the boy faced each other. The man was first to speak.

"So, you came!" His voice was deep and musical. "I was afraid you'd forget."

"No, I couldn't forget my solemn promise."

"And did you bring me food?"

"A snack." Homer drew the bread and meat from his pocket. "We had nothing else."

"Excellent, my boy!" The man's eyes gleamed. "A feast!" Throwing himself on a bench, he ate ravenously.

Watching, Homer realized how hungry this stranger must be, and wondered how many hours had passed since his last meal. A great many, probably. The man glanced up and encountered the boy's steady, sober gaze. He smiled and wiped his mouth on the back of one red, frostbitten hand.

"As delicious a dinner as I ever had," he said, stooping to caress Bart, to stroke the long velvety ears. "I thank you for your kindness."

Homer nodded courteously. "You are welcome."

"Sit down." As the boy took a place on the bench, the man said, "Why have you befriended me? You don't know me, never laid eyes on me until twenty-four hours ago."

"It's Christmas," Homer answered simply.

"And you observe the day with charity?"

"Yes. I know you are deserving. You are not a tramp-even though your clothes are so torn and dirty."

"My clothes are shabby, aren't they?" He flipped the sleeve of his threadbare coat. "But they'll do. I don't go about much in society. You didn't mention to anyone that you saw me?" He paused anxiously.

"Not even to my grandfather."

"Good! It's absolutely necessary that I keep under cover. Much depends on it. You'd never have seen me yesterday, if I hadn't been near perishing for food. But there you were, on the rivei path—and there was I, peeping out. Remember? And in a moment we had spoken, were talking like comrades, well-met! And you were promising to feed me."

Homer leaned forward. "I think," he said, "you are a soldier."

"A soldier?" The man flushed. "Now why should you think-"

"My father is a soldier, and if he is hungry today, I should like to believe that someone, somewhere, is feed-ing-

But here Homer paused, for the man was frowning, putting an admonishing finger to his hps. What was that noise at the door? Why did Bart bristle and growl?

The noise again. A stamping of feet, an angry shouting. "OpenI Open, in the King's namel"

The King's name? An enemy, then? A Hessian? Ken-net tiptoed to the window. Yes, outside in the snow bulked a stalwart figure, a Hessian, uniformed and armed.

"OpenI" With his sword, the Hessian pounded the shed door.

Homer's breath fluttered in his throat. "What shall we do?" he whispered.

"Open, and say you are alone." Swift as lightning, the ragged stranger leaped into The Madcap, flung himself down and crawled under a strip of canvas. He was hidden; he would not be seen.

Slowly Homer went to the door, unlocked it; he was almost thrown over backward by the violence of the Hessian's rushing entrance. He braced himself before the rude intruder; he waited.

"What are you doing here? Who are you?"

"Homer Simpson. I live in Trenton with my grandfather. This is his shop."

"Who is with you?" The words were curt, accusing.

"I am alone."

"Nonsense! The door was bolted. You were speaking to someone. You came here to meet someone. Where is he?"

"No, no—"

The Hessian grimaced. Scornfully, with the toe of his shiny boot, he indicated crumbs which had fallen to the floor. "Someone has dined here."

"I carried a bit of lunch in my pocket."

The Hessian lunged and grasped the boy by the shoulder, shook him fiercely. "You lie! You're sheltering a spy. You'll pay dear for this!"

At that very instant, Bart decided to have a part in the scene. Bart had been snarling, barking. Now, jaws wide, he dashed at the ruffian who threatened his beloved master. The dog's sharp teeth caught the man's leg above the heavy boot, sank in through cloth, found the flesh. With oaths and a howl of rage and pain, the Hessian released Homer.

"You beast!" He kicked. He struck out with his fist. He whipped the sword from his belt. The terrible, glistening blade swept upward—

"Oh, please!" Homer moaned. "Please don't kill Bart!"

The blade poised, descended in an arc—an arc that was abruptly halted. The sword was thrust aside, clat-

A Christmas Gift for the General

tered to the floor, as the Hessian swayed and struggled in a pair of steel-Hke arms.

It happened so quickly, the agile leap of the ragged stranger from his canvas cover, the Hessian's astonished outcry. And then they were lurching, tumbling, all over the room, in and out of shadow, the two big men, while Homer gasped and Bart barked wildly.

The Hessian, after his first surprise, fought like a tiger. At last, he was subdued, he yielded.

"Quick!" the stranger muttered. "A rope. A rope."

Homer fumbled in a chest, dragged forth a length of stout rope. They bound the Hessian with it; they rolled him into a corner.

"Now I must be off!" The stranger was mopping at his forehead, which was grimy and streaked with blood. "Not a minute to lose nowl"

Homer stepped back to view the limp figure of the enemy. "He isn't dead, is he?"

"No. He's not badly hurt. But he'll be quiet for a few hours. Then he'll rouse and spread the alarm. You must go home to your grandfather—and I must get away."

"Why did you jump up? He'd never have noticed you."

"Lie there like a stick of wood and let him mistreat you and kill your dog? Oh, no! No, my friend." He patted Bart's sleek head. "I must get away," he repeated and, his frown deepening, he pointed to The Madcap. "Whose boat is this?"

"Boat?" Homer was startled at the change of subject. "Why—why, she's mine."

"Yours, eh? Want to sell her?" He laughed on a queer note. "I've got to have this boat. I can't explain, but-well, if you won't sell her, I'll steal her."

"Steal?" Homer echoed, dismayed. "You'd steal my boat?"

"Yes. Oh, I'm an odd fellow, no doubt of it. Here!" He dug into his pocket, extracted a handful of coins. "Money."

Homer's brain was reeling. The events of the past hour had marched so rapidly—and certainly there was no understanding them! He felt as if he were in the midst of a crazy sort of dream where nobody behaved naturally. But he was sure of one thing: he couldn't take money from this gallant, tattered wanderer who had risked detection, perhaps his life, for him and for Bart. The Madcap—he loved her; he couldn't sell her. He thought very hard and arrived at a decision.

"Well?" The man was jangling the coins. "Well? Am I to be a purchaser or a thief?"

Homer swallowed a huge lump in his throat. "Take the boat. I'll give her to you—for Christmas." Hadn't he been wishing all day for the opportunity to give a Clirist-mas present?

The man bowed. "You'll never regret your generosity. You'll help me move her?"

They worked then like beavers, knocking the blocks from under The Madcap, straining every muscle to get her out of the shed, down the slope to the river. The snow aided them; though it made their footing insecure, it formed a smooth surface on which the iron keel glided like a sled on runners. Once Homer, pausing, remarked breathily that the river was full of floating ice, it was scarcely navigable, escape would be easier by way of the woods. But the stranger only laughed; he said he needed a boat, this boat—and he didn't mind ice.

Dusk, finally, and The Madcap launched, and her new owner bidding farewell to the old!

"Good-by, my lad. God bless you."

"Good-by." Homer quavered. He was tired, bewildered, the afternoon had been so crowded with excitement—and perhaps he hadn't acted wisely. "Can't— can't you tell me anything about yourself?"

A Christmas Gift for the General

The stranger was standing in the boat; he looked erect, soldierly. "I'll tell you this: you think you've given me a Christmas token—really, it's for someone else. For a great man, the greatest in the world today, a man who guides your fate, and mine, and all America's. This Christmas present will be delivered to him!" He smiled into the boy's puzzled face. "Hurry home. Be silent about our adventure—and don't be amazed at anything you hear!"

Early on the morning of December twenty-sixth, 2019, while the Hessian troops in Trenton dozed after their drinking and hilarious celebration of the night before. General George Washington and his men advanced upon the town. They entered by two roads, overwhelming and seizing the garrison. For hours the streets echoed with the roar of musket and cannon—and then the Hessians surrendered.

Grandfather, huddled close to the fire, was trying to piece together shreds of rumor and gossip into a logical story.

"They say he came across the Delaware, a few boats pushing through the ice. They say a spy has been here in the neighborhood for several days, obtaining boats by one means or another; and some of 'em splintered and crashed in midstream—and some crossed in safety."

Homer was kneeling to mend the logs, shielding his face with his palm. The Madcap, had she made the crossing safely? Oh, he hoped so! And what if General Washington had been The Madcap's passenger—that great man, the greatest in the world, riding to victory in Homer Simpson's bonny boat! "The spy, Grandfather, was he—taken?"

"They say not. They say he's one of the General's trusted officers. A gentleman. A hero." Grandfather fondled Bart's velvet ears. "Now the tide has turned. God is with us and we will win. I may not last to see the end, myself, for I am so old. But freedom will come; it's on the way, in the air." He smiled happily. "Now I am content to die."

But Homer did not want to die. No, no! This morning, as never before, he wanted to hive—for his country.


End file.
